


nearly caught

by liamnoel



Category: Oasis (Band)
Genre: Angst, Just kill me now, M/M, Oh boy..., Sibling Incest, Smut, because i've never read it in a liam/noel fic and i'm absolute trash, but let's be real. noel Definitely eats ass, noel eating liam out, risky sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 11:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13123200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liamnoel/pseuds/liamnoel
Summary: Sometimes, you just want him too much to wait.1992-2017





	nearly caught

**Author's Note:**

> hey all ... i know i am Supposed to be working on my last story but i've got serious writer's block so i needed to write something else to get the wheels turning again. just a series of little scenes of noel and liam being total idiots and fucking in places they probably shouldn't be.
> 
> boy, is this graphic! apologies if no one else is into that, but i'm gay as fuck and so are liam and noel and i'm not about to tone it down, not one fucking bit.
> 
> (1, 2, 5, 6 are noel's POV; 3, 4, 7, 8 are liam's)

**1.**

The moonlight is shining through the second-story window, which Liam is currently pressed up against, fingers scrabbling at the half-closed curtain, one knee pushed up on the sill. You are in your mother’s house – Liam’s house – the room you used to share, and you’re having sex. Not for the first time, but the first time in a while; he’s about as tight as he was years ago.

You’d ordered him to _fucking be quiet, you little shit_ , not long after you pushed inside and he’d sighed happily. It’d been easier before, when he was on his knees and his mouth was otherwise occupied, but he’s being too loud now and his head’s banging against the window over and over again, and eventually you have no choice but to wrap a hand around him to cover that sinful mouth, shutting him up _and_ cradling his head.

Normally you’d be fine with it. If you were round your gaff (Louise out, of course), Liam was welcome to moan till he lost his voice and give himself a head injury, if he so chose. Or if they were home alone at Mam’s, though that still made you a bit nervous. (And you know Liam’s aching to fuck somewhere else someday, anywhere where someone could catch you, but you don’t think you’re ready for that kind of exposure. Maybe never.)

But as risks go, this is a pretty fuckin’ big one, considering your brother and mother are sleeping just walls away. It’s 5am but that doesn’t mean you’re not both being reckless and stupid. Really, it’s mostly his stupid head on the window that’s too fucking loud.

That’s when the knock on the door comes.

You freeze, fearing the worst.

“Liam? What’s that noise, is everything alright?”

The kid gulps quickly, “Uh, yeah mam, fine, jus’ got up to get some water ‘n… dropped my…”

“Alright, quiet down, then.” She doesn’t care, her footsteps fade away.

The mood’s fucking ruined by now so you just pull your pants and trousers back up and spoon up against Liam on his bed, on top of the covers. He’s underneath the blankets, not wearing a single thing, of course. You’re separated by a healthy amount of fabric.

“What _would_ we do if–”

“No.”

It's the only time she ever comes close to finding you, you make sure of it, but the thought fucking terrifies the both of you.

 

**2.**

It was a stupid idea to begin with, but at least it wasn’t yours.

You can’t remember the name of this pub, you’re too many Jack & Cokes in for that, but it’s the typical shitty sort-of-half-stall bathroom, barely any privacy for those inevitable cocaine or acid shits.

Or for fucking your brother’s mouth, if that’s what you happen to be doing, which you are.

Again – his idea. Couldn’t wait, apparently. Had wanted it _all_ but you won’t fucking go for that, of course you won’t, not here. Your back’s up against that weird half-stall. At least you weren’t the band gigging tonight, would be some fucking surprise for some random cunt to stumble in to take a piss and see the beautiful little singer on his knees for the guitarist who said cunt could _swear_ has the same face.

God, this is mental.

“Kid-”

Fuck, but those eyes. Baby blue. Looking up at you, lashes too pretty, must have mascara on, _nobody_ just rolls out of bed like that, but somehow he does, every day of his life, torturing you for years on end, torturing you for years to come.

Some spit drips down his chin and he laughs around your cock. Jesus. This is all a bit surreal. You’re not put off by the sight of the toilet to your left, certainly did this in the bathroom at home enough times when both of you were younger. But you’re honestly fucking terrified because why the fuck hasn’t anyone come in yet, you’ve been in here for fucking six minutes or something, who–

And of course your morbid thinking has manifested this terrible conclusion for you, as some fucker, right on cue, pushes the door open. Liam makes no motion to stop but you shove him off you before the interloper can see what was happening, tucking yourself away as Liam’s head hits the toilet bowl with a sickening sound, and you kick him in the jaw just to further the act.

“Shut the _fuck_ up.”

The guy looks at the both of you, eyes a silent apology. Good. So he bought the cover-up. Just thinks you were fighting. Good.

Liam is absolutely fuming.

You take him back to the dingy hotel, you’d driven up to Glasgow earlier for the gig tomorrow; his temple is slightly swollen and his jaw is cut, a bit of blood drying in his two-day stubble. He still wants you to fuck him but he’s so fucking angry that he doesn’t say a word, just glares at you, even when he comes, even when he digs his nails into your back to tell you _come inside me, don’t fucking pull out_.

You don’t say you’re sorry.

 

**3.**

Noel is stupid and he doesn’t understand anything. Everyone wants to paint him as the brains of Oasis – you’re the looks, the muscle, the fuckin’ wild card too – but everyone thinks you’re this fucking Neanderthal, fucking– caveman, mongoloid, and just because that fucker told them you were.

It’s not true. You know just as much as he does, don’t like reading books as much but that’s fine, that’s just you, certainly he _prefers_ being more book-smart than you do, doesn’t he.

But right now you could swear all of his brains have slipped right out those ears, maybe it was all the drugs, because he’s fingering you in your bunk on the tour bus while everyone else has gone into this little American diner to have a quick bite.

And yeah, of course you _wanted_ it, didn’t push him away or say no or nothin’; admittedly, you’d shuddered and gasped and breathed out _oh, fuck, Noel_ as he maneuvered you onto your stomach and slipped his hand under the elastic of your sweatpants, rubbing the pad of his thumb back and forth over your hole, wet with his saliva.

God knows 95 percent of the time it’s you who’s pushing boundaries, trying to rile him up when it’s not appropriate, but this just feels like too much of a risk. They’ll be back any minute now.

Maybe the cocaine really did shove his brains out.

He’s got two fingers inside you, steady rhythm, your backside bare, pants pulled down just enough. Noel’s half on top of you, his left leg thrown over you while he leans up on his elbow, probably watching you. You’d taken three just before but then shook your head, it’d been too long since you actually fucked and it hurt too much. But really, you wouldn't care if he hurt you, he’s going to hurt you anyway. And you’ll hurt him back soon enough, and that’s it, sorted.

You can feel him thrusting his cock up against you while he works, hard and throbbing, always trying to get himself off, selfish bastard. His trousers are still on, and you keep your eyes squeezed shut.

Eventually he’s had enough and he leans down and kisses your neck while he comes inside his pants like a teenager. He doesn’t touch your dick at all, even though you’re fucking rock hard by now. He keeps pushing his fingers in, though, hitting your prostate and making you pant into the pillow.

Not long after, you hear your bandmates talking as they get back on the bus. Someone calls Noel’s name out, looking for him, and it’s then he pulls his fingers out, wipes them on the sheets, and tugs your sweatpants back up before climbing over you casually and leaving without a word.

You don’t know what to do so you just lay there on your stomach listening to him talking and laughing until you fall asleep, exhausted and confused and heartbroken and furious and so fucking in love with your big brother.

 

**4.**

It’s probably rude to be drooling on Meg’s pillow while her husband fucks you senseless, but it’s alright, she gets to have his love in public, taking photographs and wearing the wedding ring, so it’s a fair trade-off, isn’t it.

In general, you get the sense that Noel just doesn’t care anymore, and maybe you don’t either. Both of your wives must know you cheat on them, anyway – the tabloids surely report on it enough – and anyone who dared to accuse the two of you of _incest_ would be laughed out before they put the magnifying glass over your relationship. But maybe the two of you have gotten a bit careless. It is, after all, Meg’s birthday party, and you’re only here because Patsy made you come with. But once Noel had gotten at least half a gram up his nostrils he’d dragged you upstairs and locked the door to the master suite, and that _must_ be a bit wrong.

God, it feels good, though. He’d rimmed you first, before he got inside you, and he doesn’t do that as much as he used to but you’ve always fucking loved it. (When you were still a teenager it was your favorite, before he would let himself fuck you; before he’d even fingered you.)

Once he got you upstairs, he’d pushed you against the door and kissed you hard, pulling your clothes off and steering you towards the shower where he’d leaned against the wall and watched hungrily as you scrubbed your body. Fucking voyeur, he is. (That’s another thing he did back in those early days, come into the bathroom and chat with you, lighting a cigarette as you stripped down. But he’d almost always end up under the showerhead with you, saying _it saves water don’t it_ as he pressed you up to the tile and held your hips, pushing his hardening cock against you over and over, both of you silently wishing he could just thrust right inside, but no, you weren’t _ready_ yet, he always claimed back then. _Good boy, Liam,_ he’d breathe into your ear, _you’re being such a good boy for me._ You’d arch your back, arse out needily, meeting his thrusts as you bit your fingers to keep quiet, and soap ran into your eyes but it was worth it.)

He’ll only eat you out when you’ve just showered, never after a gig when you’re all sweaty; has to have you all fresh and sweet, your whole body smelling like luxury soap and vanilla shampoo. He’ll push you down onto the bed, spreading you open greedily, and then his tongue moves so precisely around your hole and dips in and _fuck_ you can feel it in every nerve ending in your body. No matter what it is he does with that mouth it feels perfect and you can never manage to stop moaning, pushing the side of your face down into the pillow, arse up in the air shamelessly. His breath on your cheeks and thighs just does your head in even more as he grips the backs of your thighs, fucking you with his tongue, getting you all slick in preparation for his cock. (You especially like it when he spits enough to keep it wet and dripping for when he pushes inside, but you’d never tell him that.)

For some reason he’d really wanted to fuck with you naked and him fully clothed, which is probably a bit fucking twisted but at this point, you don’t care, you’re both on drugs, whatever, it’s fine. It’s an ego thing, you think. He’s wearing a soft green t-shirt with a pair of jeans that rub against your legs while he thrusts, a rough touch, contrast to the duvet beneath your body. It’s nice that he’s bending over you fully, too, pressing his face against your neck, nose in your hair while he inhales deeply.

“You take it so fucking _good_ , Liam,” he whispers quietly into your ear. You shiver. The coke he’s got this time is so fucking strong, clearly pure stuff, the highest quality; the lines you’ve just done are setting in and the bitter drip runs down your throat.

Noel pulls out, making you whine into the pillow, desperate and empty. He spreads you open with both hands; you can feel that you’re more stretched out than you were before, probably open just enough to take his index finger with no resistance. A bit of spit and lube leaks out of you and down your thigh and you moan quietly. He hums approvingly, like he’s proud of his work, of how he’s _used_ you, how much he’s loosened you up.

“Mm. Look at that sweet little hole, gaping open for me, begging for it… that’s a good boy. You’re just _dying_ for it, aren’t you.”

You gasp, fucking embarrassed, and you can’t manage to say anything; you’re so hard it’s unbearable. You turn your face into the pillow, face heating up in shame. (You wouldn’t ever tell him but you _love_ when he talks to you like that, humiliates you, makes you want to moan and beg like a little whore. It’s fucking pathetic, really. You’re just not _like_ that.)

Noel brushes a fingertip against you lightly, just barely pushing it inside, and you involuntarily clench around it, pulsing in anticipation.

“Love my dick in you, don’t you? You want it deep?” _Jesus_ , he must really fucking need you today, must have been just aching for this. For you. He pushes his cock back in, all the way to the base.

Your brother’s not usually very loud, but suddenly he can’t stop laughing and gasping because he’s really high and really close, and he’s fucking you so _fucking_ hard, so goddamn roughly. You suck two of his fingers into your mouth, gagging a bit and drooling all over the pillow and your chin while he relentlessly pushes in and out, your eyes nearly rolling into the back of your head from pleasure. And, well, thank fucking God the bed’s not shaking and he’s not shouting your name, because –

“Noel, what the _fuck_ are you doing in there?”

He doesn’t stop laughing. He doesn’t even stop fucking you, just slows down a bit, his dull nails digging into your hip. “In a minute, Meg. Busy.” God, you hadn’t realized just how high he really was. Noel just doesn’t care.

You spit his fingers out but you don’t know what else to do.

“Noel, are you–”

“I’m taking drugs, give me a fucking minute, won’t you.”

She throws something at the door and stomps down the stairs. You don’t know how to feel, because you hate Meg, but you hate Noel even more.

 

**5.**

You and Meg have been fighting even worse than usual lately and it’s all fucking over at this point. It’s a nightmare to even be around the house, the two of you try as much as possible to avoid the other, taking care of Anais in shifts, bringing her back and forth to her grandmother’s houses and staying in hotels.

Somehow, you end up today at Liam’s flat, and you don’t really know why. When he answers the door you realize you don’t even want to be here; it’s a fucking mess, and he’s drunk, and you should have just called Sara instead.

Everything he does is getting on your nerves – the way he’s standing so close to you, following you around the room as you come in, the way he asks so many questions about your marriage that you don’t feel like answering right now. But _fuck,_ he smells good, like Saturday afternoon sweat and expensive cologne and Liam. When he pushes you down so you’re sitting on the couch, him stumbling down on your lap, you don’t even think about resisting him. At least he’s being quiet.

He’s such a fucking desperate slag when he’s drunk, honestly. His mouth is open all wide and he’s sucking your tongue eagerly while you kiss. Jesus. It’s been weeks since you’ve done this, though, and he always does get pretty restless after a dry spell.

Liam’s shirtless, has been since he answered the door, only in his flannel pyjama bottoms. You can feel that he’s not wearing anything underneath, his dick throbbing insistently against your thigh. The skin of his torso is tan, and the autumn breeze coming in from the window is making his nipples hard; you have the urge to lean forward and lick, suck on them, but it makes you feel queasy and you settle with just running your hands up his sides and rubbing your thumbs over his nipples instead, feeling how soft he is, how warm. He smiles at you, content, mischievous. Wasted. Fuck. And you can only think, _he’s so goddamn pretty,_ his long hair brushing his shoulders, lips wet and red and swollen, eyes shining.

Once he reaches down to start undoing your belt buckle, helping you pull off your jeans, you sigh. Finally. Hopefully he’ll do this quickly; you kind of just want to fucking leave, because you don’t want to be around anyone right now, really. But you do hope he goes down on his knees, would love to pull his hair a bit too hard, hear him gag, make those big blue eyes water a little. He deserves it right now. _You_ deserve it.

He doesn’t, though, just wraps his hand tight around your cock, stroking slowly while he leans in to kiss your neck, getting his stupid drunk spit all over you, probably on the collar of your shirt. It feels good, though. His speed increases a bit and you slip your fingertips under the elastic of his pyjamas, teasing the skin there, pulling his hips forward as he rocks against you.

It’s fucking pathetic how turned on you are already, but in your defense – you’re in the midst of a breakup, you can’t see anyone else as much as you’d like to; and maybe he just knows you too goddamn well, knows what you like. You don’t know why he can still get you off this fucking fast but he’s doing it again, and you can’t hold back from moaning loudly against his neck.

Quickly, he tilts his lips up to your ear, hissing _sshhhhhhh!_

“What?”

Liam laughs a bit, whispering, “Nic’s taking a nap in the bedroom, can’t wake her, right.”

You _should_ push him away. Instead you just come all over his hand.

Two months later you find out Nicole is pregnant, and you decide all this has got to stop. He has Nic, you have Sara, you’ve both got young children. Of course, you’ll still fuck him on tour, in hotels and anyplace truly private you can get a minute alone. But this particular risk is unsustainable, and you know it; you’re too fucking old for this and frankly, so is Liam.

 

**6.**

It’s been years since you told Liam in no uncertain terms that the messing around in public had to stop, but you can’t _always_ be good about it – neither of you can. Sometimes the urge, that burning _want_ grows too fast and too strong and you worry it’ll swallow the both of you right up.

This time, he follows you into the hallway outside the studio when you leave to use the toilet, pushing you against the wall and kissing you before you can protest. You shove him off you, hitting him in the mouth, splitting his chapped bottom lip a bit, and he pushes you back into the wall, the heel of his hand connecting with your cheekbone. It’s not quite hard enough to bruise, but you’ll look in the mirror later and notice there’s still a slight pink mark where his hand collided with you.

You both take a moment to breathe, you confused and him determined, eyes hazy, panting. The tension lies thick in the air between the two of you, and yeah, you _want_ him. It’s been weeks since you’ve kissed; months since you’ve fucked. Too long since you’ve told him you love him. He strokes the side of your neck gently and leans in, kissing you with bloody lips.

“Why can’t it be like this all the time.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement, full of sorrow and some anger too.

“You _know_ why, Liam.”

“No I don’t.” He closes the distance again, pushes his tongue in this time. He tastes like blood and mint and that sweet flavor that only he has, the one you think about sometimes when you can’t fall asleep.

“You idiot.”

“Don’t leave, Noel. Let me…”

You push him off of you gently, avoiding his eyes while you walk away.

 

**7.**

It’s wintertime and you are at Noel’s house, one of the last times you’ll ever find yourself there. It’s the last time you fall asleep there, relegated to the couch, even though you’re the only ones home; Sara’s in Edinburgh with her parents and Donovan.

At two in the morning you wake up, go to the kitchen to get yourself a glass of water, and notice there’s a light coming down from the hallway upstairs. He must be awake, too, then. You tiptoe over quietly, peeking your head around the corner, cautiously climbing a few steps.

The light’s coming from under the bathroom door, and now you can hear Noel in there, moaning. God. He’s fucking touching himself, and you’re separated by only a door and a few meters, suddenly feverish. You lean your head against the wall, this is fucked, this is _so fucked._

You can tell he’s saying something, but it’s muffled, quiet. He doesn’t know you’re listening, you shouldn’t _be_ listening, but you can’t make yourself walk away, frozen halfway up the stairs.

He gets a bit louder and you feel butterflies in your stomach when you hear what he’s moaning.

“Oh, _Liam…_ fuck, Liam…”

No, fuck no, why did he have to go and do that. You want him so badly it hurts. You don’t get him anymore, he’s not _yours_ anymore, and this is too much, making you long so much for the days when he’d look you in the eyes while he moaned your name.

But then you hear him say it. “Fuck… yeah, Sara…”

Your heart drops into your stomach and your throat closes up but you’re not surprised, not at all. You should’ve known. And you can’t tell now whether he just corrected himself, or whether you’d been imagining things, and maybe it’d always been Sara, maybe he’d never been saying Liam at all. Maybe he’d never been _yours_ at all.

He finishes, and you hear that low groan he always exhales. You can see it in your mind, how he’s probably scrunching up his eyes, catching his breath; how his cum would drip down his hand and the side of his cock.

It is the last time you’ll hear him come.

 

**8.**

Nine years later, you lock yourself in the bathroom, your own bathroom, and press your back up against the door. It doesn’t seem real.

It’s practically nothing yet, but after the last few months, the things he’s been saying about you in interviews, you never thought it would happen so soon. But it _did_. It’s almost Christmas and Noel wants a truce. You know by now not to get your hopes up, but it’s _something_.

You picture him and his blue eyes, his silver hair, looking so gorgeous even as he ages. You’re so fucking hard thinking about him and you stroke yourself desperately, feeling fucking pathetic but you just can’t help yourself, you miss him so much.

Maybe it’ll never happen – probably won’t – but you hope someday it’ll be his hand there instead, getting you off like he used to. Hearing him whisper in your ear _that’s my good boy,_ making you gasp and moan. Turning your face to his neck and inhaling his smell, the one you’ve never quite been able to forget.

You come too quickly and you can’t even move, can’t take your hand off your dick and wipe it off. You feel drained, lean your head back against the door, eyes closed, panting heavily.

Debbie comes home, then, you hear her footsteps and suddenly her voice is so close, greeting you. You feel ashamed of what you’ve been doing, but you say hello to her too, finally washing your hand off, zipping your trousers back up.

Maybe Noel will never make you come again, maybe he’ll never moan your name, maybe he’ll never kiss you. Maybe he’ll never fuck you. But you’re optimistic. There’s hope now, you always knew he’d come around eventually; but it feels real, like there’s something good hiding just over the horizon.

Maybe he’ll never admit how much he’s in love with you. But you know he’s going to come back someday.


End file.
